


Ilex

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 05:37:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11662704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Thranduil tells Aragorn a story.





	Ilex

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for elenathen’s “Tantrum, for Aragorn/Legolas” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/163120603835/prompt-list-4).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Legolas is handsome even in the field, when he’s slept on the hard earth and been denied a wash for days, whether touched by snow or rain or just the dry heat of a valley. But he’s _beautiful_ in his homeland. Aragorn’s seen him before, here and there, at grand receptions, where he might enter in glittering robes of silver and a gem-filled circlet about his forehead, his golden hair brushed to perfection and his eyes clear as the sea. Tonight will be one of those times—they returned in the morning and have a welcoming feast fast approaching, their own announcement on the horizon. Aragorn was finally expelled from Legolas’ chambers, because it’s difficult for a prince to properly dress with a lover always at their lips, and now that they’re finally somewhere _safe_ and private again, Aragorn finds it very hard to keep his hands off his beloved partner. 

He removes himself from his own quarters, because sitting and waiting only makes him want to break down Legolas’ door all the sooner. Instead, he tries to fill his time with exploration, though it’s hardly his first trip to the Woodland Realm. There are still things to see, and some things worth seeing many times. He wanders down familiar corridors, lingers over attractive balconies, and finally finds himself approaching one of the square courtyards scattered about the palace. Most of them are small—there’s little need for such enclosures when the entire place is surrounded in the wild woods. They bear many vivid flowers, some of which make Aragorn yearn for _home_ and others that seem exotic even to him. But the courtyard he’s drawn to is different than the others, for this one contains a _tree_.

It’s vaguely conspicuous, in a way, the little cluster of grass amidst the tiled walkways hardly enough to contain the massive routes. The tree isn’t particularly tall, only thick, still relatively young but eager and inquisitive, its branches low and far-reaching. The leaves obscure some of the evening light that streams down, pure and unhindered in all the others. Aragorn finds himself tracing the wizened lines cut deep into the bark, painting patterns no mortal could devise. 

He’s so mesmerized in this view, in the spell that is the Woodland Realm, that he doesn’t notice footsteps approaching. Or perhaps certain elves really are beyond all his skill. He only becomes aware of the other’s presence when King Thranduil appears in his peripherals. Aragorn politely dips his head, murmuring, “My king.”

Thranduil lowers his chin slightly in acknowledgement, but he offers no more. He stands, tall and strong, by Aragorn’s side, more gorgeous even than the tree and all around it, all the carved pillars and exquisite masonry that comprises the ancient woodland halls. His is a harder beauty than his son’s, sterner, and though Legolas is many centuries older than Aragorn, he still seems to hold a youth that his father stands above. When Aragorn first saw Thranduil, only a child then himself, he felt both reverent and intimidated—he’d never seen an elf so severe, though now he knows that Thranduil is hardly the cold, stony figure Aragorn’s childish brain first conceived. He’s far more than that. And for a long, quiet moment, he eyes the tree alongside Aragorn, as though entranced by the same spell. 

Eventually, Thranduil drawls, low and idle, “Legolas planted this, you know.”

Aragorn didn’t know. He feels himself frowning, though he thinks he should smile—it’s just always strange to think of Legolas as _that_ much older than him, when in truth he both looks and feels like the elder partner. Something about the way Thranduil casually throws that age about irks him, though Aragorn swiftly reminds himself that he’s no teenager with the father of the boy he courts. He’s a grown man, as is Legolas, and Thranduil is only someone to respect, not fear. 

Thranduil continues, eyes both fixed forward and lost far away, “He was very little then. One spring, I had the gardens replaced, certain beds dug up and replaced with the new species our realm has bred—crossbreeds of flowers and gifts from other lands that would enhance their beauty tenfold. Our roses were to grow here, only our own, the black velvet kind that can be found nowhere else in Middle Earth. ...But Legolas had been given a little sapling from Lord Elrond on his name day, and he insisted on planting it here instead.”

The story explains some of Aragorn’s affection for the tree—he can recognize now where it bears some resemblance to those about his home, though its grown differently for its surroundings, and its rich scent is deeper than he’s used to. After a momentary pause, Thranduil continues, “I told him, of course, that these gardens were meant only for flowers, and if he wished to plant his tree, he must do so outside the palace where its roots would not disturb our stone. Legolas begged me to make an exception, but I told him that a prince must still obey their king, and he could not.”

Yet, Aragorn notes, the tree still stands before them. He glances sideways at Thranduil, sure now that Thranduil is lost deep in memory. It’s another quiet minute before Thranduil’s expression changes, a wry smile coming to his lips as he recounts, “My little leaf was furious. He stomped his feet and demanded the tree rest here. He pulled at my robes and yelled at me until there were tears in his enormous eyes, yet I denied him again. Then he really did cry, both genuine and manipulative, and he wailed that I was cruel and vile and he would never love me again. I knew, of course, that he did not mean it, but my heart still clenched in my chest from hurt more than shock. He had never spoken to me like that before.”

When next Thranduil pauses, seeming to thoughtfully reflect, Aragorn really _looks_ at him. The story isn’t at all what Aragorn expected—he can hardly imagine Legolas, his kind, demure beauty throwing such a tantrum. Legolas is one of the most balanced and reasonable people he knows and has often brought him comfort, soothing him when his own mortal temper grew out of hand. Yet Thranduil tells him, “I gave in, eventually. I was not proud of it, and he never got away with anything like that so easily again—I have learned to remain strong against him. He has a fierce will, my heir.” And Thranduil stops for a soft chuckle that gives Aragorn a little start—this is a side of Thranduil he’s never seen. 

He asks finally, when it becomes clear that Thranduil has no more of the story to say, “Why do you tell me this?” Then he quickly adds, “Forgive me, I am only curious.”

Thranduil gives him a dry look, neither friendly nor judgmental. And Thranduil calmly explains, “So that it might represent to you what this tree does to me. Men tend to think of elves as ethereal and untouchable, beings of pure art. Compared to your kind, we are.” Aragorn takes no offense, and Thranduil murmurs softer, “But my son is a complex creature of many colours, Estel, and you must strive to understand and care for all facets of him, both the grand and the unpleasant. I do not think you are with him solely for his beauty—nor would I allow you near him if you were. But to love him is not enough. I need you to love him _wholly_ , beyond all that you know, with everything that you can give.”

Aragorn is stunned so speechless that he can’t even answer that he already does. Legolas has long been everything to him. And he’s known that Legolas was more complicated than most gave him credit for, though Aragorn would never have thought of it in the context of Thranduil’s story. 

Thranduil’s entrance, he missed, but he knows when Legolas approaches him, turning instinctively at the soft sound of Legolas’ footsteps and the earthy scent about him. He looks just as luxurious as Aragorn knew he would, desirable and almost obscenely _perfect_ in every aspect of his slender form. He drifts to Aragorn’s side like a Maia dancing on the water, but to Thranduil, he sighs, “Ada, you were not telling the tree story again.”

Thranduil just grins slyly and turns to go. He sweeps off without another word to either of them, likely headed the same way they must be: to the feast where they’ll announce the new ring on Legolas’ finger. In his absence, Aragorn mutters, “I had no idea you were... so colourful.”

Legolas rolls his pretty eyes, shakes his lovely head, and slips his hand into Aragorn’s. He laughs, “I presume you love me still?” To which Aragorn, of course, smiles and nods. 

They follow Thranduil together, with Aragorn sparing a final glance towards the tree: a symbol of all the wonders that can grow when Legolas follows his heart.


End file.
